Rattlin' Bones
by monkeymail
Summary: Song-fic based on the events of Reichenback Falls.


**Based on the song Rattlin' Bones and did originally have the lyrics and made much more sense, but apparently we aren't allowed to post lyrics on here...please review and tell me if it still makes sense.**

**Sherlock Holmes is the property of the BBC and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Quotes from BBC's Sherlock are in Italics**

* * *

Moriarty did seem to have a fondness for fairy tales, so when several of the New Scotland Yard cars pulled at cross the road from 221B Baker street, it came as no surprise to Sherlock. It was just like in those fairy tales his mother had read to him as a child, the villain twisting the ordinary folk to do his bidding rather than getting his hands dirty, but no matter which story his mother had told him they all ended the same way. The hero rose up against all odds and in one final spectacular confrontation the villain was defeated. Sherlock, of course had never really believed any of that, and this was no different. While he fully expected their confrontation to come to a spectacular end, Sherlock knew that neither he nor Moriarty would be walking away in complete triumph.

Sunset, the cycle of life drifting from light to darkness, the clarity of day blurring into the uncertainness of what lurked in the darkness. Sherlock smirked to himself as he stared out the window, _of course they would come now _he thought as he watched the Yarders park across the road on Baker Street. Lestrade had phoned ahead but Sherlock already knew that they were coming, Moriarty dealt him and I.O.U, a promise that would lead to a fall and this was just the beginning.

There was a was a ring of the doorbell and several loud knocks on the door as Sherlock watched Mrs Hudson descend the stairs to rather reluctantly let the officers in. He knew what was coming and as much as he didn't want to admit it he was grateful that Lestrade had given him enough time to come up with at least the beginnings of a plan. Sherlock could hear John asking if they had a warrant - of course they do, don't be stupid – and Mrs Hudson exclaiming about their lack of manners – why would they need manners to arrest someone? - He silently picked up his favourite purple scarf and slowly wrapped it around his neck before slipping into his overcoat. They were coming up the stairs now, he could hear the heavy steps of Lestrade; resigned with the fact that he was nothing more he could do other than making sure everything went as smoothly as possible. Then there was Donovan's, lighter steps, slightly faster than Lestrade's, eager to arrest him. Sherlock couldn't even bring himself to be overly mad at her either, she was just doing her job, and it wasn't her fault that she was too stupid to see past Moriarty's web of deceit.

Sherlock couldn't say he was surprise when John was shoved against the police car next to him, though he couldn't stop his lips from twitching when the shorter man told him what he had done to be arrested as well.

But while he was happy that John was right along there with him it was a tad of an inconvenience, they had no back up, no one to come and bail them out. Mycroft may have gotten him into this mess but there was no way in hell that he would get them out of it. Sherlock glanced down to the dashboard of the car and saw and saw a stray ear piece next to the hand held microphone, an idea forming in his head. It would be awkward, and not because they could only rely on themselves but because he and John were about to escape from not only Lestrade but the Superintendent and at least half of New Scotland Yard barely minutes after being arrested. Sherlock smirked and reached forward for the microphone.

That was the thing about Moriarty. He had the brains to manipulate people into doing what he wanted and the money to get away with it. He was a ghost, invisible to everyone under the guise of Richard Brooks, a master at hiding in plain sight. And people would believe what he said about Sherlock Holmes because his story, his lie was hidden in truth, something that people would willingly believe because it was so much easier for him to be a fraud then for the rest of them to be inadequate. It was these thoughts, these doubts from the ordinary people, people like Donovan and Anderson that Moriarty preyed upon and it would be these doubts that made Sherlock's fall so much better.

_What do you need?_

_You._

Sherlock was wrong, and for once he was willing to admit it, even if it was only to himself. The computer key code was never the game changer; it was just a pawn like everything else in Moriarty's twisted game. Molly Hooper was. He had been stupid not to think of it sooner, she had after all said it herself, she didn't count. Not to Moriarty anyway, she was just the girl that worked in the morgue, the girl that he had used to meet Sherlock for the first time. To Sherlock, Molly Hooper was the girl who noticed, who understood what it meant when people looked sad when they thought no one else could see. She was the girl who believed in him even when he himself was starting to have doubts. She was his saviour.

_Come and play._

This was it, the final pieces were moving into position. Molly had successfully drawn John away from the hospital, arrangements had been made and all that was left was a meeting on the roof top. This was it, the final game, the final round, the final moment.

Sherlock ran his fingers through his hair desperately trying to think of something, some way to get around Moriarty's final order. Three bullets. Three gunmen. Three victims. Three of the people he cared about the most would die if he didn't. It was the only option, finish the game and let Moriarty win. Sherlock of course had his backup plan, but either way he was going to die, and tomorrow morning Kitty Reilly would cement his fall from grace in history, printed in the paper for all of England to read. Three bullets. Three gunmen. Three victims. Once choice.

_I am you. Prepared to do anything. Prepared to burn. Prepared to do what ordinary people won't do._

Sherlock could see John clearly from his position on the ledge of St. Bart's roof. He looked so small, so fragile and for a second Sherlock caught himself wondering what the day would bring. Would his friends make it out of this alive, would he? But he snapped out of his thoughts as he saw John was trying to come closer. That was something that he couldn't allow to happen, John had to believe that he was dead or it wouldn't work, the gunmen had to see him jump or the story wouldn't be complete and his friends would be dead. He did his best to make John believe the lie but it wasn't his strongest argument and John countered most of it was logic of his own. Sherlock smiled of course he could count on John being loyal to the end, but it had to end so with tears in his eyes and a catch in his throat, Sherlock played his final card.

_This phone call, it's... it's my note. That's what people do, don't they? Leave a note._

He jumped.

John was alone. He was sitting in the flat staring at the stupid skull of Sherlock's that sat on the mantelpiece. It had been a week since Sherlock jumped and John hadn't spoken to anyone other than Mrs Hudson, he had barely moved and definitely hadn't slept.

Sherlock was haunting him, not only in his dreams but in his waking hours as well. He put out three cups when Mrs Hudson made tea, he would expect to see a head or some other body part in the fridge when he opened it and he would lay awake at three in the morning waiting to hear the sound of Sherlock's violin drift through the flat while he was trying to sleep. Every night he waited and every night he was deafened by silence. Because Sherlock was gone, and John was alone.

Sherlock hadn't gone to the funeral, besides trying to keep a low profile watching his own coffin being lowered into the ground would have been too morbid, even for him. He had however watched as Lestrade and Mrs Hudson say their piece gently resting a hand on his tombstone. Mycroft hadn't said a word, he had just stared at the stone with a calculated look, his face so devoid of emotion that not even Sherlock could tell if his brother knew he was alive or not, but he had stayed for ten minutes. Donovan and Anderson hadn't stayed long, neither knew what to say to the man who's life they had effectively taken, or so they believed and no one else had felt the need to correct them, so instead they each blabbered some kind of apology that was more meant to comfort them than him, and left. John however, from the information Sherlock had gathered, hadn't stayed to watch the coffin be lowered into the ground either, in fact it had taken Mrs Hudson almost three days to coax John into coming down to the gravesite at all.

_Please, there's just one more thing. One more thing. One more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't be... dead._

Sherlock listened as John poured his heart out to his best friend's grave, it seemed that even after the fact John hadn't believed the lies Sherlock had told him. And for reasons unknown to Sherlock, sentiment probably, he wanted to reveal himself to John. But he couldn't, he had work to do and it still wasn't safe for him to return to the 'land of the living' or so to speak. So until that time came, he would remain in the shadows with the dust and rattling bones.


End file.
